Trust Issues
by blackash
Summary: <html><head></head>John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.  De-anon from kink meme.</html>
1. Hate

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC

Summary: De-anon from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed. Part one of five.

Warnings: Discussion of child abuse and alcoholism.

Notes: Another product of my time on the Sherlockbbc kink meme.

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><p><strong>Hate<strong>

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><p>John hates himself when he drinks. He hates the way the alcohol burns so pleasantly down his throat and settles warm in his stomach like heaven. He hates the way it loosens him, undoes his masks and neutralizes his defenses, removing all the barriers that make him safe and good and normal. He hates the monster that lurks just below the surface, cruel but oh so patient.<p>

_He'd never even intended to start drinking, but peer pressure could be so insistent and it hadn't seemed like such a bad idea at the time…_

John hates himself when he drinks. He hates how it only takes a few bitters and several shots of rum for him to be starting brawls in the pub or on one memorable occasion, wrapping his hands around some unlucky bastard's throat.

_Someone stopped him, thank God. But the smell of vodka still makes him nauseous._

John hates himself when he drinks. He hates that with every swallow he's proving how much of a Watson he is.

_Harry has it easy. She's a miserable drunken Watson too, but at least she's only a useless drunk, not a violent one._

_And she fights it too – sometimes._

_It never lasts, though._

_He's stopped expecting it to._

John hates himself when he drinks. He hates that no matter what he tells himself or how hard he tries, he is still his father's son.

_And even though he hasn't had more than one beer at a time in five years, he knows that all it will take is one slip up and everyone will know the truth. Then they'll see the broken pieces he's spent his entire life trying to bury. He doesn't think he could bear that. He'd rather die._


	2. Confrontation

Summary: Repost from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.

Warnings: Discussion of child abuse and alcoholism.

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><p><strong>Confrontation<strong>

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><p>Sherlock doesn't beat around the bush.<p>

"Your father used to beat you."

This little pronouncement comes without prelude or explanation halfway through a post-case dinner in a little Chinese place several blocks from Baker Street.

It is almost one o'clock in the morning and the place is nearly empty but for a few employees and a lone man at the bar nursing a bottle of something dark and pungent (John can smell it from where he and Sherlock are sitting on the other side of the room).

_Your father used to beat you._

John considers denial and discards that plan almost as quickly as it occurs to him. He has no particular desire to hear that portion of his sordid past paraded about in a row of neat little deductions for the entire world to see.

Sherlock knows. The realization feels strange in his stomach and burns his throat uncomfortably.

John shouldn't mind. It's not as though Sherlock of all people can think any less of him. John is, after all, only an idiot to Sherlock. Granted, he is a handy adoring audience and housekeeper as well, but beyond that he's pretty much useless… unless of course he's killing people, but John doesn't like to think that's all he's good for. Even if it might be true.

And still the thought persists: Sherlock knows.

That's fine, he tells himself firmly.

Honestly, he's surprised it took Sherlock so long to notice. Surely it was obvious to the great consulting detective? The way John stood or spoke or avoided drinking like the plague probably gave him away ages ago.

He wonders briefly how specific Sherlock might get in his deductions, if John asked. Can he tell the frequency with which Harry used to throw herself between her father and her brother? Can he guess at what age she finally succumbed to her own vices and ran away from home, leaving John and their mother at the mercy of a raging drunk? Can Sherlock deduce that Mr. Watson was usually too drunk to handle a belt and most nights had to resort to using his fists and feet to teach his worthless son his place?

He doesn't want to know.

And it's sick that he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from asking.

There are a lot of things he can say to Sherlock's assertion, but John is tired and sore and does not want to deal with this. Not now, not ever. He'd be much happier if he could go back to pretending that the first decade and a half of his life never happened, thank you very much.

"Pass the Lo Mein," he says firmly, intending to stop this discussion before it begins.

Sherlock is actually caught off guard enough by John's non sequitur that his hand is halfway to the dish in question before he realizes what John is doing.

Sherlock frowns slightly. "John…" he begins slowly, his hand hovering guardedly over the Lo Mein, as though he intends to hold it hostage.

"Sherlock, please," John doesn't like the tinge of desperation that creeps into his voice but he likes the idea of talking about this with Sherlock even less.

The consulting detective's expression is impossible to read, but if he were anyone else John might say that the man looked pained.

"John, I…"

"Don't," he interrupts sharply, "Just don't. It's over, Sherlock. It's over and it's done and he's dead. It's fine and I'm fine. So please, _please_, just pass the Lo Mein."

Sherlock's expression is perfectly blank as he passes over the dish.

They finish eating in silence.


	3. In the Darkness

Summary: Repost from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.

Warnings: Discussion of child abuse and alcoholism.

I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter, and especially those who reviewed: **98Shaddowolff98**, xrx, **CaptainBillyTheWerewolf**, **C Elise**, GooseberryP, and **SparkleNinja** ! This story is very dear to my heart; it's wonderful it know that so many people are enjoying it. Thank you all again!

Edit Note 5/7/2011 - Thanks **FuzzyDeMash** for pointing out the slight awkwardness. Fixed it.

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><p><strong>In the Darkness<strong>

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><p>John wakes up sweaty and terrified.<p>

He is nine years old again and Harry is nowhere to be found. The room is filled with shadows and the remembered reek of alcohol. He is small and helpless and there is a dark shadow looming over him. It's his father, come to drag him out of bed and throw him into walls while he curses and shouts about his absent slut of a wife, his fuck-up of a daughter and his utterly useless son.

John curls in on himself, arms automatically moving to protect his head, already bracing himself for pain. He knows better than to fight back or even say a single word. It always ends much faster when he 'plays dead'.

"After all, what's the fun in beating a corpse?" Harry had joked morbidly once when they were hiding in the linen closet while their parents hurled obscenities and glass bottles at each other in the kitchen. It wasn't a funny joke, but John had laughed silently until he cried. Then he just cried, also silently. And Harry had held him in her big strong arms and promised him that things would get better.

She had been lying, of course. He'd known that even then, but it was a good lie, a happy lie, like the stories she'd tell him of what their dad had been like before he became a monster or of how one day she'd be big enough to get a job and take him away from their broken home.

For a moment John finds himself desperately wishing that Harry was there, that she'd protect him like she had once upon a time. But then he remembers that Harry had abandoned him just like she abandoned everything, like her promises, her family and her _wife_.

The shadow shifts closer and John stiffens, his heart beating wildly in his chest. For a horrible moment he waits expectantly for the blow come.

When the pain doesn't come to embrace him like a longtime friend, John knows something is off. The abject terror abates enough so that he can breathe again. The oxygen helps clear his mind and he realizes that the shadow is too tall and far too slender to be his father.

And then he is no longer nine years old. He is an adult, not to mention a doctor and a well-trained, ex-soldier. He fights criminals with his flatmate on weekly basis that make his father look like a girl scout. He forces himself to relax and listens as his heart slowly steadies back to something resembling a resting heart rate.

"Fuck," he curses silently. He glares at the silhouette of his too tall, intrusive flatmate. This is all Sherlock's fault. The bastard just had to go and drag all of this nonsense to the surface. John hasn't had these dreams in _years_ and he shouldn't be having them now. He's not a helpless little kid anymore and to get so worked up over the mere mention of his father is as ridiculous as it is contemptible.

It's _over_. It's _been_ over for years now, and John wants nothing to do with any of it.

He'd thought he'd dealt with this.

Why can't he just forget?

He flinches a little when Sherlock looms closer, reaching a hand out in the darkness. The hand immediately withdraws and John hates how pathetic he must appear to his self-styled sociopathic flatmate.

Sherlock, all six feet of him, silently folds in on himself until he is curled into a surprisingly tiny and completely unthreatening ball. John wonders if he should be angry at this transparent attempt at appearing harmless. But absurdly enough, Sherlock's efforts actually do seem to calm John's lingering panic somewhat, so it's hard to be angry at either the blatant manipulation of John's mental state or the unashamed breach of his privacy.

"John," Sherlock's voice is strangely gentle against the stillness of the room.

"Go away," is what John intends to say, but all that comes out is a plaintive, "Sherlock." John's voice is rough and he wonders if he was screaming in his sleep or if it's only the strength of fading terror that's clogging his throat.

He can feel Sherlock's hesitation like a tangible presence in the darkness, but it only lasts a moment.

Sherlock tentatively reaches for John's hand in the darkness. John doesn't flinch this time (the hand comes from below and his father had always been so much bigger than him…), and when Sherlock takes his hand he finds himself holding on a great deal tighter than he intended.

"I'm here," Sherlock says quietly and John wonders if Sherlock understands just how significant that statement is.

No one has held his hand after a nightmare since Harry was still the center of his universe. The various girlfriends he'd had before he'd joined the army had never woken up during one of his nightmares and he'd never mentioned them. Which was fine, he hadn't wanted to burden the girls with his pain. He could barely stand the memories on his own; he couldn't ask them to deal with it too. And after he was injured in the army…no one had been there, either. Through the horrible pain of recovery and the endless stream of nightmares of the war, his bedside had remained empty. He had never really understood how empty it had been until this very moment, with his crazy flatmate holding his hand in the darkness of his room at some inhuman hour of the morning. And it's…strangely nice to have something, someone to hold on to.

"Do you…want to talk about it?" Sherlock asks carefully, his voice barely a whisper in the night.

"No," he means to tell Sherlock. That's what he should tell him. His past isn't any of Sherlock's business and baring his soul to this man will only bring more pain. He knows this, but the rebuff refuses to pass through his lips.

"I shouldn't," says John finally.

"Why?"

"It won't help." He's so tired and sick with relief at the fact that it was just a nightmare, that it wasn't happening again, that he doesn't quite know what he's saying anymore.

"That's not what…" Sherlock cuts himself off and John wonders briefly what he was going to say before Sherlock begins again, the slight hesitation in his words the only sign of how far out of his depth the man probably is. "Why won't it help? Why can't you talk about it?"

"It doesn't help," John says somewhat incoherently, not completely sure what question he's answering. In the darkness it's hard to keep the lines between past and present as firm and solid as he'd like. "Never helps. Harry tried once, you know. Didn't help. Made things worse. I thought she was going to die."

He feels Sherlock tense beside him, but John keeps going, unable to stop now that he's started. "Course, being Harry, she went about telling in the worst way possible. Teachers couldn't stand her. She always made too much of a fuss. I didn't, though. Better to be plain and boring and ordinary so no one can see you at all. It's better that way, doesn't hurt as much. Wished he'd leave me alone, too. Didn't, but playing dead helped. Sometimes I wished he'd finish it so it wouldn't hurt anymore, but he never did. Too much to ask, I guess…"

And the words continue to flow in a jumbled mess of memories and musings. Throughout it all, Sherlock doesn't say a single word, he just holds onto John's hand, and listens. John loses track of where he is more than once, but Sherlock is there beside him, always, his hand the only thing anchoring John in the present, keeping him from losing himself in recollections of the past.

"He can't hurt me anymore," John says at one point, insistent on trying to make Sherlock understand why John shouldn't even bother talking about this, why it's pathetic that he still dreams of being nine years old and completely helpless to the whims of a violent drunk.

Sherlock speaks for the first time in minutes or hours and his voice is strained with an emotion that John can't quite place. "But he can, John, and he is."

John laughs a little broken laugh at that. "Cognitive dissonance is a funny thing," he says without preface, wanting to run away from Sherlock's words. "Harry always said he was a monster, but I always worried he was right. He was a complete bastard, I knew it even then, but when someone tells you you're a worthless waste of space and money that's never going to accomplish anything often enough, you start to believe it. I took enough psych courses in school to know that it's nonsense. I _know_ that I didn't deserve what he did to me…but knowing something like that is different from believing it."

He laughs again and realizes that it's more of a sob. His face is wet. He wonders when that happened.

Sherlock is silent, but his grip on John's hand is verging on painful. John doesn't mind much; it isn't a bad sort of pain. It's…comforting.


	4. Trust Issues

Summary: Repost from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.

Warnings: Discussion of child abuse and alcoholism.

I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter, and especially those who reviewed: **XMillieX**, **TakeMeToTheStars**, **ultraviolet128**, **Corpium**, **FluffieBunniekins**, **FuzzyDeMash**, **CaptainBillyTheWerewolf**, nw, **your-icequeen**, **98Shaddowolff98**, **SparkleNinja**! You're all wonderful!

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><p>Trust Issues<p>

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><p>His therapist says he has trust issues. This is true. She also says he got these issues through the trauma of war. PTSD. Or whatever acronym they're calling it by these days. That isn't true, but he doesn't mind the assumption.<p>

It's what he wants her to think, after all.

Further proof of his trust issues, he knows, but hardly cares.

Besides, his trust issues are old news. Very old news. After all, if you can't trust your own family to protect, love or even feed you properly, how exactly can you be expected to trust anyone?

That's no one's business but his, though.

Well, and Sherlock's, apparently, he muses as words continue to spill forth. He's gone his whole life without speaking a word of the abuse he'd endured during his formative years, and now that he's started talking he can't seem to stop. A part of him likes to think that this has less to do with his specific audience and more to do with exhaustion and the safe anonymity offered by the dark veil of night.

That's a lie and he knows it.

He is hyper aware that it is _Sherlock_ leaning against the side of his bed, clutching his hand like a life line. He is supremely conscious of the fact that it's _Sherlock_ he's talking to, that _Sherlock_ is the one for whom he is baring his soul and that _matters_. He wouldn't be telling this to anyone else, not even an empty room.

Mycroft had been right, much as John hates to admit it. He does trust Sherlock Holmes. He'd trusted him from the moment they met, though John hadn't realized it at the time and doesn't understand why even now. He probably never will, but finds he doesn't really care.

Because if there is only one person in the whole world he can trust (and this might very well be true), he could do a great deal worse than the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock, whose first gift to him was to cure his psychosomatic limp. Sherlock who understood him better with a single glance than his family, friends and girlfriends had after months and years of acquaintanceship. Sherlock who saw John's hidden burden and unlike the rest of the world, refused to ignore it. Sherlock who of his own volition sat curled up on the hard floor beside John's bed, patiently listening to the endless stream of drivel coming out of John's mouth.

John hasn't spoken this much in years, in his entire life, probably; he'd never met anyone willing to listen.

He knows he should be embarrassed at his indiscretion, and in the morning he will probably be mortified at his behavior. But for the moment, John is too tired and too broken to do anything but tell Sherlock everything. It's surprisingly easy: Sherlock doesn't push or pull. He doesn't speak; he just sits there, letting John spill his guts and taking on the herculean task of simply listening despite the knowledge that listening is all he can do because the culprit has been rotting in the ground for years now. John appreciates his friend's silence; he neither needs nor wants empty platitudes.

Nothing will erase his past. John knows this and had thought he'd learned to deal with it. He realizes somewhere between the explanation of how he'd kept the hospital from catching onto the real reason he ended up there so often and the story of how he'd worked himself to the bone to afford college and medical school that he had been lying to himself. He hadn't been coping at all, it seemed, and ignoring the problem had probably only made things worse.

That is the only explanation as to why with every word he speaks it feels as though he's chipping away at the tight metal ball of fear and pain and self-loathing that has been lodged in his stomach for so long he'd forgotten that it isn't normal to be constantly tense, continuously on edge, waiting for the other foot to drop. Each and every metal chip hurts as it's dislodged from his soul, but the knowledge that these pieces of him are being quietly collected by Sherlock's waiting hands makes the pain bearable.

Sherlock, John thinks somewhat deliriously, will take these horrible secrets and keep them from the world, hide them away where no one, not even John, can find them, so that John can finally, finally be free.

It's a beautiful thought.

As the night slips away, and little by little his words slowly whittle away at that metal ball, John begins to feel somehow lighter and inexplicably…cleaner. The pain isn't gone; it never will be gone, but it's better. And that's enough. It's more than he ever expected.


	5. Morning Always Comes

Summary: Repost from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.

Once again I would like to thank everyone who has read and enjoyed Trust Issues. Thank you everI appreciate all the faves and story alerts, and I especially love all my reviewers. Thank you, **FuzzyDeMash**, **FluffieBunniekins**, **98Shaddowolff98**, **your-icequeen**, **SimpGirl87**, **ultraviolet128**, **TakeMeToTheStars**, and **CaptainBillyTheWerewolf**. You're all amazing!

Notes: This is it for Trust Issues, I hope you enjoyed it!

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><p><strong>Morning Always Comes<strong>

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><p>John doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up to bright sunlight shining cheerily through his window, Sherlock is still there, leaning against John's bed, his hand still inextricably linked with John's.<p>

John stares at their joined hands for a long while. He would never have dreamed of asking anyone to do what Sherlock had done for him last night. This, he supposes, was probably why Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask.

He smiles fondly and cannot help but wonder what he had done to deserve having this man in his life. Whatever it was, he reflects, it could not have been nearly enough.

"Thank you," he says so softly he can barely hear himself as he tentatively runs a gentle hand through Sherlock's curly hair.

"You're thinking too loud. Stop it," Sherlock mumbles without opening his eyes, possibly still fast asleep. John wouldn't put it past his friend to be able to tell people off in his sleep.

John's smile becomes a grin and he laughs silently.

Once the laughter dies down he considers getting up. He gazes around his military bare room, at the light shining in through the window and finally at his flatmate. Getting up, he reflects, would necessitate letting go of Sherlock. He isn't ready to do that. Not yet.

He settles down in his bed again, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightening momentarily. He doesn't know what will happen when he wakes up again. He has no idea what his confession will look like in the light of day, what Sherlock will do or say now that he's heard the truth from John himself.

John should be terrified.

For some reason, though, he isn't.

He drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
